


The Confusion Between Love and Hate

by claro



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Hurt, Jealousy, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Misunderstandings, greg is not having as much sex as the tags suggest, mystrade, previous couples
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-29 01:20:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3876928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claro/pseuds/claro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When an innocent situation follows a previous betrayal, even the most simple of misunderstandings can turn love to hate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I started another story because I've been really working hard on the last complicated chapters of Not Us and needed something to take my mind off it. It turned out more angsty than I thought. I've been belting through this one very quickly, so hopefully it will go quickly.

'Blackpool?'

Mycroft Holmes narrowed his eyes as the DI opposite him started laughing.

'Oh come on, Myc,' he reached out as the politician stood to leave, hating that he was being laughed at, no matter the reason, 'I'm sorry. I won't laugh if you bring me back a present.'

'A present?' Mycroft raised one eyebrow, waiting to see what came next, 'And what sort of present?'

'Yes.' Gregory stretched and smiled, leaning forwards towards Mycroft and resting his chin on his hand, 'I want a...rolled penny.'

There was silence at the table as Mycroft frowned, 'A rolled penny?'

Gregory just nodded, the smile of michief lighting up his face.

'And what, may I ask, is a... _rolled_ _penny?'_

It was clear that Gregory was trying really hard not to laugh at the blatant confusion on Mycroft's face. Sometimes he was reminded exactly how different the worlds they had come from were. Gregory's childhood holidays had been in cheap seaside B&B's getting sick on ice cream and sunburn while Mycroft spent his time touring European cities and trawling museums and learning Italian.

He leaned further forward and pressed a kiss to Mycroft's lips.

'You're a smart man. You'll figure it out.'

The frown threatened to return so Gregory's smile turned teasing.

'Think of it as a scavenger hunt. It'll give you something fun to do between meetings.'

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes.

'I can hardly wait.'

　

#

　

John's beer sloshed over the top of the glass as he used it to gesticulate towards Greg.

'And _then,_ then he says 'How do you function with such a tiny mind?' and stormed out of the flat, all scarf and cheekbones and... swishy coat and...and...cheekbones!'

Greg laughed a little too loudly, swaying slightly in his seat.

'He is all about those cheekbones,' he agreed.

John narrowed his eyes suddenly, 'What are you trying to say? Are you saying you think my boyfriend is-'

'I'm saying _nothing!'_ Greg took two goes to lift his glass. That round of shots had definitely been a bad idea, 'I've got the sexy one.'

Now it was John's turn to laugh.

'You got the wanker.'

'We don't just wank,' Greg tried to wink at John but gave it up as a bad job. Scrap the shots, drinking with John at all was a bad idea. You'd think Greg would have known by now, but with Mycroft gone he was desperate for some company, so when John called to complain about Sherlock's latest tantrum he'd been only too glad to accept the invitation for a pint. Five hours later it was getting hard to focus on the other man and Greg wasn't entirely certain that he would be able to make it to the door never mind negotiate his way home.

'I dun't think I'm gonna get a cab like this,' John was clearly reading his mind, and Greg smirked as he held up his phone.

'I've got a secret weapon though.'

Five minutes later they were both safely encased in the back of a sleek black car under the watchful eye of one of Mycroft's staff who was discreet enough to say nothing, but had no doubt already informed her boss of the state of his partner.

By the time they tumbled through the door of Mycroft and Greg's home, John was having trouble standing at all. There was no chance of them making it up the stairs, so Greg just deposited John on one of the sofas.

'Take ma shoes off,' John ordered, his voice slurred.

Greg was halfway through taking his own jeans off and fell on the floor, ignoring John's laugh.

'I'm gunna be in so much trouble when Myc get's ba'.' he said, 'He dussent like it when A'm drun'.'

'S'lock wun't even notiss A'm not there.'

Greg pouted at the way John's face crumpled.

'Aww, he will.'

'He won't.'

Greg gave John a hug and then released him to pull the blanket from the back of the sofa and drape it over John's hald asleep figure.

'Will,'Greg assurred.

　

#

　

Greg woke up under the press of another body and wriggled instinctively against the erection pressing against his back. The room was cold, but the man wrapped around him was warm and he sighed in satisfaction as the bare arms tightened around him, a face pressing into the back of his neck.

'Mycroft,' Greg sighed happily, rutting slowly against the other man.

'Yes?'

The voice didn't come from the man behind him, but from the other side of the room.

Greg lifted his head in confusion and jerked when his eyes locked on Mycroft, who was sitting in an armchair across the room, suit immaculate, steely gaze fixed on the half naked pair tangled on the sofa, and tapping a small copper coin repeatedly in the arm of the chair.

Sitting up so fast the room span around him and he had to reach out an unsteady hand to stop himself falling on his face on the floor, Greg looked behind him to see John stirring slightly in his sleep, his jeans halfway down his legs and his jumper still with one arms inside it.

Greg's face lit up in a smile at the sight of his partner home early.

'Myc,' he grinned, pulling himself up again, he grin on his face turning dopey as he focused on the red haired man. He was so pleased to see him that it took him a moment to notice that Mycroft was not smiling back. Instead he looked strained and paler than usual. Clearly a bad conference then. Greg vowed to improve Mycroft's mood later and his lips twitched at the thought of how he could do that. Mycroft's sharp eyes read every thought going through Greg's head, just as Greg knew he would.

'That won't be necessary, Gregory,' he stood up and looked at Gregory with not a trace of emotion on his face, 'I expect you to be gone before I get home. Now if you'll excuse me, Detective Inspector, Dr Watson,' he nodded to each of them and lifted his umbrella and briefcase and wordlessly setting the coin he'd been holding down on the table. He didn't look back as he closed the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Behind Mycroft the door was wrenched open and Gregory staggered up the hall, catching him by the wrist at the front door, and pulling him around to face him, the confusion on his face almost painful.

'Myc?'

'What can I do for you, Detective Inspector?'

Gregory physically recoiled at the coldness in the other man's voice. It had been years since he had heard it directed at him and the shock of it forced Gregory to let go of Mycroft's arm and take a step back.

'What? What's wrong?'

Mycroft's gaze flicked past Gregory to where John Watson was stumbling out of the living room, trying to pull his jumper on probably.

''lo M'croft. Good trip?'

'Illuminating, thank you. Now I suggest you leave before my brother gets here.'

''lock?' John smiled, but Mycroft had already lost interest in the ex army doctor and refocused on Gregory, unable to keep the sudden snarl out of his voice.

'You just had to have the set, didn't you?'

Gregory's face paled and he staggered backwards as he understood Mycroft's words. But Mycroft was already gone, the door swinging open behind him.

　

#

　

Greg frantically dialled Mycroft's mobile, but it seemed Mycroft had already blocked his number. In frustration he threw it against the wall and covered his face with his hands as John looked on in confusion.

'What was that about?'

'He thinks we....'

'No!' John's horror was almost comical, 'But we didn't. Did we?'

'Of course we didn't!' Greg shouted at him.

John licked his lips, 'Thank god. Sorry, no offence.'

There was silence in the hall as Greg tried to think through what had just happened.

'So why would he think that?'

Greg shook his head. There were two parts to that answer. Being seen hungover and half dressed sleeping on the sofa with John, innocent though it was, was only one part. The other part was harder to admit, and Greg dropped his gaze in shame.

'Because I did it to him before.'

John breathed out, 'Shit. When?'

'A long time ago. Years.'

'With who?'

Greg could hardly breathe, his whole body cold, and he couldn't look at John.

'Sherlock.'

John barely had time to register what Greg had said before Sherlock himself was storming up the stairs and driving his fist hard into John's chin.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> six months later

Six months later....

　

Greg Lestrade closed the door of his office to block out the sound of the cleaners vacuuming down the hall. It was almost 2am and there were still staff working hard through the night all through the Yard. His hand went automatically to his pocket, his fingers curling around the rolled penny showing a slightly deformed looking Blackpool tower. Sighing, he toed off his shoes and dropped onto the narrow sofa in his office, not even bothering to undress as he tugged the blue throw over himself. He really shouldn't have been there, and if caught he _hoped_ he would be able to claim he was just taking a rest while working overtime. It wasn't uncommon in his line of work to go 24 hours straight with just a few snatched naps, and anyone who saw him lately would be able to tell that he looked worn enough to have been working a hundred hours a week.

But that's what happens when a team of sombre suited men arrive fifteen minutes after your boyfriend leaves following a misunderstaning and pack your bags before literally ejecting you from the home you have shared. Confused, angry, hurt and half naked, surrounded by bin bags full of his things (bin bags! he hadn't even known Mycroft knew what they were or even where they might have been kept in the house) it hadn't taken long for one of the neighbours to call the police. And oh, what joy that had been.

6am in the morning and with no other option or capability for thought, he'd simply picked up two of the bags at random and climbed into the back of the police car that was waiting for him. He left the rest where they were on the street, too stunned to care what was in them.

They knew him at the local station and the desk sergent was kind to him and drove him to A and E to get the seven stitches in his palm that had left such a nasty scar. He'd been gripping the flattened penny so tightly the thin edge had cut deeply into his palm and fingertips. He hadn't even noticed.

He didn't always sleep in the office. Five nights out of seven he went out and then went home with someone. Male, female, he wasn't fussy. He also wasn't old enough or drunk enough to pretend to be oblivious to the fact that he was clearly trying to get something out of his system. Or perhaps he had just sunk so low that he would simply put out if it meant a warm bed for the night.

That had been a bit of a shocking realisation after the luxury of Mycroft's Mayfair townhouse. In the five years since he had moved in with his partner, London prices, even for cheap, boxy rentals, had risen so far out of his price range that he was seriously worried about sleeping on the streets by the time he retired. Fuck knows he'd burned through his savings on cheap emergency hotel rooms and friends spare rooms and floors until he reached the point where he spent nights in his office, estate agents flyers and letting ads circled on the papers on his desk. Each one a disapointment. And each one now hideously out of his single wage price range. He'd looked further out of the city, of course, but once he factored in train and travel costs, he still couldn't afford much more than a postage stamp sized bedsit in the sort of neighbourhood he tended to visit during the day job.

He marvelled at the massive number of young people and students he spotted around the city, young couples in their early twenties, people who looked barely old enough to be out on their own after dark, and still they were managing to work out how to live in London. He briefly wondered if they knew something he didn't before his eyes closed and he blocked out the distant sounds of the station at night.

#

John hadn't seen or heard Sherlock for almost five days, and he had no idea if the man was even in the flat at all. He supposed he would have heard if something bad had happened to him, but then again, with how angry Mycroft had been...perhaps not.

He listened out every night, from the cold sactuary of his old room at the top of the stairs, and sometimes, very late at night, he might hear the front door openeing, the rustle of something - paper or plastic, the chink of china or glass and then Sherlock's bedroom door closing. And locking.

His visions of Sherlock had been fleeting. It seemed that the man had learned John's schedule, and was never in the flat when he was. It wasn't that Sherlock was doing anything unusual, as such. In the past they had often missed each other for days at a time. But knowing this was contrived was hard. And it had been _months._

John had been to look at yet another flat with yet another dubious housemate with interesting concepts of personal hygiene and had returned exhausted, forgoing dinner to kick off his shoes and climb silently to his old room, pointedly not looking at the firmly closed door to the room he had shared with Sherlock.

'I don't own this flat, so I can't make you leave,' Sherlock had said, carefully arranging his features, 'But...'

He hadn't needed to say it. John was no longer welcome in his bed. He was now, once again, the flatmate who lived upstairs. And one of them needed to move.

At first John had been indignant about the unvoiced suggestion that he should be the one to find a new flat. But over the months he realised that Sherlock had more of a right to 221b than he did. Sherlock had found the flat, had already moved in before John had even viewed it, had such a long history with Mrs Hudson. No...it was clear to everyone that when something went wrong and someone had to leave, it was going to be John.

If he'd thought about it in the past, the insecurity of his tennure might have made him laugh. But he came home each day wondering if this was the day he was going to arrive to find all of his possessions in a bonfire in the middle of the street.

There was a soft click from downstairs, and a moment later the flush of the toilet, and then a door closed and the night once again fell silent. John rolled over, pulling a pillow to his chest, and tried not to scream.

#

In his line of work, Mycroft Holmes had many bad days. In the past he had managed to salvage what little sanity he could from the knowledge that Gregory would be waiting for him at home, having had his own comparible bad day and not needing to ask questions.

These days Mycroft returned home alone, as late as possible so he would have to spend as little time in their, _his,_ home as he had to. Everything felt too big and yet somehow diminished. Or perhaps that was only Mycroft. He was no longer able to tell.

Or perhaps that was only the scotch. He was no longer able to tell that either.

Some nights, when the day had been really bad, when people had died or mistakes had been made, Mycroft would come home, take himself to his study and pour a drink before opening the safe and taking out a small box. A savage reminder of the dangers of sentiment and a subtle nudge he needed to refocus on the priorities. Caring was not an advantage.

Two rings. One silver, one gold. One for each of them. It didn't matter that they wouldn't match. That was the point. Gregory was at once silver in looks and warm gold in nature, while Mycroft was gold in appearance, and cool silver ice under it. He'd known as soon soon as he'd seen them. A pair, but individual.

He'd never asked Gregory in the end. Never had a chance. He'd planned it, and then Gregory had been caught up in a particularly horrific case and he hadn't wanted to taint the memory of a proposal with such a bad and all consuming memory of murder. Then there was the emergency conference in Blackpool of all places. And then....

Mycroft closed the box again, but left it sitting on his desk.Staring at the closed lid for a few minutes before taking a deep breath and putting the box back where he'd been storing it, at the back of the safe, unable to quite bring himself to throwing it away. Then he poured another large drink, pulled a file towards him, picked up a pen and began to work.


	4. Chapter 4

Six years ago....  
Gregory was grey faced when he finally arrived to meet Mycroft for lunch, clearly hungover. Mycroft, who had already ordered for them both and was on his second glass of red, smirked slightly and sipped at his wine, noting the way Gregory winced when he picked up the glass.  
'You're late,' Mycroft teased.  
Gregory hesitated slightly before sitting down, and something flashed across his face that Mycroft had never seen before. Guilt.  
Carefully Mycroft set his glass down and looked across at his partner, studying him. Deducing him. The slump of his shoulders. The set of his features. He wasn't making eye contact, not properly. Lingering scent of alcohol, brandy, beer, and traces of something spicy. He was uncomfortable, confusion and something close to shock in his expression. Mycroft straightened in his seat.  
'Oh,' was all he said.  
Gregory looked directly at him then, all too aware that he wouldn't need to say anything to Mycroft, that he would be able to work it all out. There was no point in even trying to lie to the man, that would just be insulting to both of them.  
Mycroft took a few steading breaths and then another sip of his wine as he thought. Gregory still hadn't moved, and was looking at him with a pleading expression.  
'Myc...I am so-'  
Mycroft held up his hand, 'Please, don't apologise.'  
There was a flash of relief and then Gregory noticed Mycroft's strange stillness and his face crumpled.  
'It was a mistake. I was...so drunk, and we'd been working all week on that kid's murder and with the cuts at work and...'  
'Gregory.'  
'...and I didn't really know what I was doing...'  
'Gregory.'  
'And I know that's not an excuse....'  
'Gregory!' Mycroft almost shouted, atttracting the attention of several other diners. He waited until Gregory looked at him, 'It's fine.'  
There was a long silence as Gregory considered his boyfriend.  
'What do you mean 'fine'?'  
Mycroft shrugged, pushing down his own hurt under the level of reason. It would not do to allow emotion to rule the situation.  
'These things happen,' he said slowly, hating the way the words felt in his mouth.  
Gregory was staring at him now.  
'Our relationship is still very much in it's infancy,' Mycroft went on, relying on logic to get him past the stabs of pain in his chest, knowing that he could deal with those later. In private, 'And we have never discussed terms or expectations.'  
'Mycroft, what do you mean?' Gregory said very slowly.  
'I mean that it's fine,' Mycroft said, even though it felt anything from fine. But as he looked at the man across the table, he knew that he needed to make it fine, because he had spent years already deeply, embarrassingly in love with him until the day, three months ago, when the DI, exhausted after a long day at a gruelling crime scene, had gratefully accepted a lift back to the Yard after Donovan accidently left him behind and Sherlock had absconded in a cab, leaving Mycroft annoyed.   
They had talked the whole way, easy conversation with small pauses of companionable silences. Small things - work, politics, things that had been on the news. Common ground. Neither of them had noticed that Mycroft's driver had circled five miles out of his way, driving slowly through the city with a smirk on his face. When they eventually pulled up outside the Yard, it was an hour later than it should have been, but neither man realised. Instead, when Gregory paused with his hand on the door and offered to take Mycroft to lunch the following day,  
'It's the least I can do,' he'd said with a sleepy smile that did nothing to diminish the warm look in his eyes.  
Mycroft had accepted before he'd had a chance to think of a reason to decline. After that first lunch, where they chatted about work until Mycroft was called away, they didn't speak to each other for a week or two until one day Mycroft was waiting at the Yard when Gregory stepped outside at noon, sleek black car waiting on the road behind him.  
'What's your brother done now?' Gregory asked, dighing heavily.  
Mycroft just smiled, 'I believe it's my turn to buy lunch.'  
It became a routine for them after that. On days when their work loads would overlap, one or the other would always turn up with food or coffee, or on long days lunch, and eventually dinner, and then one night Mycroft, exhausted after a long day of dealing with Sherlock, simply tilted his head back and instructed his driver to take them 'home.'  
'I assume you have no objection to rissotto,' Mycroft asked without opening his eyes, 'I can't face eating out tonight.'  
And that was how they ended up at Mycrofts, drinking wine and eating delicious food cooked by someone else and skillfuly reheated by Mycroft, master of the microwave. And how they ended up sitting across from each other in large armchairs, sipping their drinks in companionable silence as they each slowly drifted off to sleep. And it was how Mycroft was awoken by the shake on his shoulder as Gregory got ready to leave.  
'It's late,' Gregory said, 'I have to go. You should get some sleep.'  
Mycroft blinked up at him as the sleepy fog cleared.  
'You don't have to go. You can stay here.'  
'You sure?'  
Mycroft nodded and slowly stood, as Gregory removed his coat again.  
'Alright then, thanks,' Gregory smiled that grateful smile of his, 'Where's the spare room.'  
'...I don't have one.'  
Gregory's smile turned shy as Mycroft bit his lip.  
And that was more or less that. Until...  
...'I mean that it's fine.'  
Gregory swallowed.  
'It's not fine, Myc.'  
Mycroft took another sip of his wine, more to have something to do with his hands, something else to focus on, than anything else.  
'Gregory-'  
'Myc, please!'  
There was a choked sound in his voice that Mycroft had not been expecting. He looked across at his boyfriend and considered him again. It was only then that he realised the depth of guilt in Gregory's face. The self loathing. If it had been a random and meaningless encounter then Gregory would not have looked so wretched, especially after being forgiven so easily. That meant that it was more personal. His ex wife? No. Mycroft frowned. He didn't smell like her perfume. Didn't smell like a woman at all. So a man then. A man who was more than a random or meaningless encounter. So...someone important to Gregory then. But the way that he'd said it wasn't fine indicated that they were someone significant to Mycroft....oh.  
Sherlock.  
Mycroft felt sick. He set his glass back down and looked at his hands, trying to compose himself before he spoke.  
'How?' he managed eventually.  
Gregory looked wary at his calm tone, and for a second Mycroft wasn't sure he would answer. But then Gregory slumped further in his seat, and began to speak.  
'We caught the guy who killed all those kids in Camden and the team were having a couple of drinks to celebrate. Then...then we got a call through about a...disturbance at Tower House....they were asking for me specifically. So I went and Sher...he was high as a kite and fighting off two security guards. I took him home rather than the station and...and...I don't know, Myc. I'm sorry.'  
And he was. Mycroft could see it in every single part of him, every movement, every breath. Nothing he could say or do would make Gregory feel worse than he already did. So Mycroft just nodded.  
'Okay.'  
Gregory snapped his head up to look at Mycroft, 'Okay?'  
Mycroft nodded, 'It's okay,' he took another sip of his wine, 'Perhaps it's best we stop seeing each other.'  
Which is what happened. For over a year they didn't speak or see each other, the only exception being those rare times when their work overlapped when they were cordial and polite and refused to make eye contact with each other.  
Then the call came through.

#

Sally Donovan ran across the main office and didn't bother to knock on the DI's door before she flung it open.  
'Donovan!'  
'Sorry, sir, but I thought you'd want to know.'  
'Know what?'  
'Holmes was shot as he left home They're treating it as attempted murder. They asked for you specifically.'  
Greg was already on his feet and reaching for his coat, his paperwork and coffee forgotten, 'Sherlock always does.'  
Sally frowned at him, 'It's not the fre- him. It's his brother.'  
'Mycroft?'

#

Greg Lestrade strode though the hospital ignoring the shouts of staff and flashing his ID at anyone who actually approched him. He knew when he reached Mycroft's room because no one else in the hospital had a security detail outside their private room. He didn't stop or speak, just pushed straight through the guards into the room where Mycroft was propped up in bed.  
He closed the distance between them in one stride and caught Mycroft's face in his hands, kissing him hard.  
As he pulled back he became aware of Anthea sitting at Mycroft's side, her blackberry in one hand and a stack of manilla folders balanced on her knee, eyes round. Greg ignored her.  
'You!' he said to Mycroft, and then dropped his gaze to take in Mycroft's form, 'Are you okay?'  
Mycroft watched the way Greg mentally catalogued his body and was filled with a rush of warmth he hadn't felt for a long time,  
'It was my leg,' he said, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice, 'Just a graze. A few stitches.'  
'It's not funny, Myc.'  
'I'm not laughing.'  
Greg folded his arms, 'Yes you are.'  
'Perhaps a little,' Mycroft conceeded.  
Greg took the seat vacated by Anthea and refused to move for the rest of the night. Donovan, for all her faults, had managed to convince the staff that Greg was working Mycroft's case and was not to be disturbed. Greg made a mental note to buy her lunch for at least a week.  
Mycroft was heavily sedated and slept a lot, managing almost a full night's sleep. When he woke, it was with the soft sounds of Greg's snores and the tensing of the fingers that were wrapped around his own. He gently squeezed the hand he hadn't held in a year and felt a rush of warmth as Greg instinctively squeezed back.   
When Greg woke an hour later, disorientated and bleary eyed, it was to find Mycroft watching him with his stormy eyes, his hand still entwined with Greg's own.  
'Hey,' he mumbled, smiling widely, 'How are you?'  
'Fine.'  
'Do you need anything? Water? Food? Bathroom?'  
'...Yes.'  
'Bathroom?' Greg was already reaching for the button to call the nurse.  
'No.' Mycroft closed his hand around Greg's, stilling it where it was, 'I need...I need you.'  
There was complete silence in the room and Greg made to break away from Mycroft's hold, but the red head held onto him tightly.  
'What?' Greg asked in a small voice.  
'I need...need you.'  
Mycroft still had hold of his hand and only tightened his grip as Greg tried to stand.  
'Myc...' but there was no way to finish that sentance, so Greg just looked down at the man in the bed, holding his hand.  
'It's been unbearable without you.'  
Greg rubbed the back of his next with his free hand, 'Myc, do you remember why we broke up?'  
Mycroft fixed him with an icy glare, 'It's my leg that is damaged, not my brain.'  
Trying to stifle the smile that was threatening to errupt, Greg ran his thumb over the back of Mycroft's hand. He opened his mouth to speak, but Mycroft cut him off.  
'I would like to recommence our relationship, if that is acceptable to you.'  
Greg blinked and, despite himself, laughed, even though his heart was quietly breaking all over again.  
'You say that when you aren't doped up on pain meds and we'll talk.'  
Four days later Greg was sitting at his desk when he got a text message.  
Not so much as a paracetamol. I meant what I said. MH  
Greg thought about it for a long time until eventually he responsed over his lunch break.  
So where do we go from here? - g  
The response took twenty minutes to come through.  
You were the one who kissed me. So I assumed you had a game plan. MH  
It's not a game - g  
It was over an hour before Mycroft responded. Greg was on his way to a crime scene when his phone vibrated. Since Donovan was driving he risked a look at the screen and immmediately wished he had waited until he was somewhere more private.  
Do you love me, Detective Inspector?  
He hit the call button before he had a chance to even think about what he was doing.  
'Mycroft Holmes.'  
'Of course I bloody do!' Greg practically shouted, causing Sally to jump and swerve dangerously into the other lane. She steadied the car and glared at him, but Greg wasn't paying her any attention.  
There was a silence on the other end of the line, and for a moment Greg thought that Mycroft had gone. But then there was a sound and a voice, soft and timid spoke.  
'I do too.'  
Four months later Greg moved into Mycroft's home.


	5. Chapter 5

Now...  
John Watson was drunk.  
He'd spent more nights that way than he really cared to admit. The doctor in him said it was a bad idea, but the broken hearted man in him said it was a bloody brilliant way to escape for a while. Downstairs Sherlock was playing his violin. A soft, haunting tune that filled the flat with pain and longing. John closed his eyes listened, imagining the look on Sherlock's face as he played, the way his fingers would dance across the strings, the soft sway of his body in time with the music.  
John poured himself another glass and sat back. Eyes closed.  
#  
Sherlock was not oblivious to John and his actions. He knew he was in trouble for arriving at work still drunk, and if it hadn't been for Sarah's patient understanding of his personal circumstances, John would have been fired on the spot. Anyone else would have been.  
And John wasn;t eating, chosing whisky instead, shut away in his bedroom, drinking himself into oblivion so he could get some sleep.  
Despite the fact that they hadn't spoken a single word to each other for weeks, Sherlock was concerned about him. The brief glimpses he saw did nothing to reassure him. John wasn't okay. But John wouldn't even look at him any more, avoiding being in the same room as him, or avoiding being in the flat altogether if he could help it. Which was why Sherlock was suprised to find John standing in the doorway watching him as he set his violin back down.  
They stared at each other for a long time until eventually John's expression changed to disapointment and he turned away again.  
'I didn't do it, you know.'  
He didn't look back as he climbed the stairs back to his own bedroom. Sherlock watched him go, a man completely broken. He'd said those same words many times over the last six months, but this was the first time Sherlock realised he might actually believe them.  
#  
Anteha didn't glance up at her boss as he walked slowly across the lobby. She could tell by his gait that he was exhausted, and she could tell by his posture that he'd already had more than one scotch in the last hour. She frowned at her computer monitor but said nothing.  
'Cancel my meetings tomorrow, Anthea,' Mycroft said, not pausing as he passed, 'I'm going to take a personal day.'  
'Yes, sir,' Anthea said softly, not looking too closely at Mycroft. Not wanting to see the exhaustion on his face, or the purple circles under his eyes, or smell the lingering traces of alcohol that had been all that was helping him sleep lately.  
She also knew that 'a personal day' would stretch into two and Mycroft wouldn't be sober for more than a few minutes of it. She closed her eyes, wishing she knew what to do to help him.  
In the past six months Mycroft had taken to sleeping on the other side of the bed, at least on those nights were he could bring himself to go to bed at all. The whole house had been well cleared of anything to do with Gregory Lestrade, but Mycroft still thought sometimes that he could smell the other man, or hear him moving about in another room. It made the time spent alone almost unbearable.  
The house was too quiet. Too clean. All the towels were hung up where they should be and there were never stray cups abandoned on the sideboard. There was no smell of Thai food in the kitchen and there was only one toothbrush in the cup in the bathroom. But the first time Mycroft really realised that Gregory was gone was one night when he came home late and tired and automatically went to the cupboard in search of biscuits. He'd stood in the kitchen, staring at the shelf which was now crammed with bags of dried fruit and rice cakes. Gone were the chocolate biscuits that used to live there, and Mycroft realised that there had never been chocolate biscuits before Gregory, and there wouldn't be chocolate bisuits now that he was no longer there.   
He'd gone instead to the Tantalus in the study and poured himself a triple measure of scotch. That night he couldn't sleep and eventually pulled a blanket down to the sofa, scotch glass by his side, staring at the dark ceiling until he heard the sounds of the household staff arriving in the morning.  
#  
Mycroft was unaware that not too far away, Greg was laying on a sofa too. His office was cold and he felt a sudden urge for warmth that he hadn't in a long time. Greg was a city boy at heart and the cold and rain had never bothered him. But since Mycroft he felt like he hadn't been warm at all. He couldn't go on the way things were. He was almost fifty for fuck sake, and here he was living in his office and struggling to keep his career on track as his life fell apart around him.  
Where did it all go so wrong?  
And that was the bitter thing about it all. Greg knew that he hadn't done anything. Okay, so he'd fallen asleep half naked on the sofa with John, but he hadn't done anything that Mycroft thought he had, and that hurt more than anything else. The fact that Mycroft couldn't just look at him and see the truth the way he could with everything else.  
Maybe, a trecherous little voice in Greg's head said, Mycroft doesn't want to see the truth.  
In the dark Greg rolled over, his mind made up.  
#  
Sherlock was at the Yard that morning, although he stayed away from Greg. It was still strange seeing him without John tagging along. Sherlock glanced at him as Greg passed him, a furrow between his brows, and Greg could feel Sherlock watching him as he carried on down the corridor.  
#  
Lestrade has quit his job- SH  
Are you sure? - MH  
Yes. - SH  
This is your fault by the way. - SH  
Who's going to get me cases now? - SH  
As always, brother, your compassion is astounding. - MH  
Mycroft put his phone back in his pocket and sat back in his chair. Then he made a decision.  
#  
Greg stopped in the doorway of his office, coffee in one hand and looked at the man sitting behind his desk.  
'Whatever he's done, I'm not fixing it,' Greg said dismissively, and moved to the other side of the room to shrug off his coat.  
'I'm not here about Sherlock.'  
There was a pause.   
'You tended your resignation,' Mycroft said. It wasn't a question.   
Greg was impressed, it had only taken Mycroft one hour to intervere with his life again. He nodded and sipped his coffee, not turning around to look at Mycroft.  
'You've been drinking.'  
Mycroft didn't deny it. Greg eyed him cautiously, deciding how much to tell him.  
'Gonna go live with my folks for a while.'  
'In France.'  
'No, Mycroft, on the moon.'  
There was silence for a moment and then Mycroft spoke again.  
'May I ask what prompted this sudden decision?'  
And at that Greg finally snapped.  
'Look around you, Mycroft! Take a good look. I'm homeless, broke and am never going to get another promotion because of your bloody brother and I spend all my time either working or...' he stopped just as suddenly as he started, but Mycroft was regarding him with a calm expression.  
'Or sleeping around,' he finished for him.  
Greg just shrugged, 'Well, my boyfriend threw me out on the street because he thought I'd been doing it, so I thought I might as well live up to his expectations.'  
Mycroft hadn't moved from his seat. He kept his gaze fixed levelly on his ex.  
'I was going to propose-' he began, but Greg held up a hand to cut him off.  
'No!' he shouted, tamping down the stab of pain, 'You do not get to come in here and do this to me now!'  
'-when I got back from Blackpool,' Mycroft finished calmly, studying Greg carefully.  
Greg's head swam and for a second he felt unsteady on his feet. Was Mycroft really so cruel as to tell him this now. After months of silence he has to get in one last parting shot.  
'Please just go, Myc.'  
'When I saw-'  
'No!' Greg shouted again, 'You saw two blokes crashed on the sofa, both so drunk that they couldn't get their own shoes off never mind make it to a bed. It's not the first time you've seen me sleeping off a hangover on that sofa. And yeah, sorry about the erection, but it's a bit hard to control when you're asleep! And while we're at it, do you remember what the first thing I said was.'  
There was a silence for a long time and Mycroft blinked, his face unreadable.  
'My name,' he said eventually.  
'Your name,' Greg repeated with a snarl he couldn't control, 'Your name. It's always bloody you.'  
And Greg tried not to think about the number of people he had called by Mycroft's name over the last few months, or what they were doing at the time.  
With a sickening certainty Greg knew what was coming next, and on any other day he would have been thrilled, but not today, not after what Mycroft had just told him.  
'Perhaps,' Mycroft began, 'We could-'  
'I don't think that's a good idea, Mycroft.'  
'Gregory...'  
'You've left me twice, Myc, I don't think I could take a third time.'  
'Please, Gregory, if you'll just-'  
'GO!' Greg roared.  
Mycroft pressed his lips together and stood, lifting his umbrella and coat with care, and refusing to meet Greg's eye as he passed him into the main office, where forty pairs of eyes dropped back to their computer screens as if they hadn't just heard the whole exchange.  
#  
Talk to John. He's a wreck. Going to kill himself at this rate. - GL  
He didn't do anything - GL  
It was ten long minutes before he got a response, and when he did, Greg just stared at it.  
I know - SH  
Have you apologised? - GL  
I take it you have been talking to Mycroft - SH  
Answer the question - GL  
No. I haven't. - SH  
Why not? - GL  
I don't know what to say - SH  
And wasn't that the truth far too often when it came to Sherlock. Greg looked down at the message again and sighed.  
Try 'I'm sorry' - GL  
#  
The flat was dark when John arrived home, and he risked a trip to the kitchen before Sherlock appeared. He was halfway through filling the kettle when a deep voice behind him spoke.  
'I'm sorry.'  
John almost dropped the kettle as he jumped. Sherlock was standing just outside the kitchen, still dressed in his suit and coat. He was looking at John with a pained, slightly confused expression.  
'What?'  
'I'm sorry,' Sherlock repeated patiently.  
It was the first time Sherlock had addressed John directly for weeks, and John struggled to work out what Sherlock could have done that was so bad he was actually apologising for it. In the end he just asked him.  
'What did you do? Are the police going to come over?'  
Sherlock shook his head.  
'Then what? Look, if you broke something just say-'  
'I didn't believe you and I'm sorry.'  
John was stunned into silence. Across the room Sherlock started fiddling with a mug that had been left on the counter. He dropped his gaze away from John, but glanced back up at him, almost shyly, clearly waiting for John to say something, the worry clear in his expression.  
'You...what?' John burst out.  
Sherlock repeated himself but said no more.  
'That's it?' John shouted at him, fists balling at his sides as he fought to control his emotions, 'Six months and all you can say is that you're sorry? Jesus Sherlock!'  
'John, I-'  
'I'm am not finished!' John pointed at him and Sherlock fell into silence, 'You're supposed to see everything, so how come you couldn't see the truth that morning? I would never...' John bit his lip hard and looked away, anger coursing through him.  
'I am sorry.'  
#  
Sherlock watched John's reaction. This was not going according to plan. He had apologised, what more did John want? And then John asked why he hadn't been able to see the truth, and Sherlock realised where all of John's anger was coming from.  
'Why didn't you see?' John repeated, his voice catching.  
'I...I don't know.'  
'And what made you realise?'  
Sherlock went to take a step forward, but stopped himself, 'I looked again.'  
John shook his head, 'I need some air,' he said, pushing out of the flat before he said something he would regret.


	6. Chapter 6

John met Greg at the Yard, where Greg had just kicked off his shoes for the night, settling down with a stack of paperwork. He looked surprised to see John, who hadn't been at the Yard since that morning both their lives went to hell.  
'Coffee?'  
John just nodded in silence, suddenly feeling awkward.  
'Come in, John, welcome to my humble abode.'  
John looked around the tiny office, 'You're sleeping here?'  
'Sometimes,' Greg admitted with a grimace, 'It could be worse.'  
'Not really.'  
'Hey, I've seen your flat!'  
John couldn't help the flicker of a smile that passed his face. He took the offered mug from Greg and sat down on one end of the sofa.  
'Sherlock apologised,' he said.  
Greg took a sip of his coffee, 'Bit of a coincidence that.'  
'What is?' John narrowed his eyes, Greg had a terrible poker face.  
'Mycroft was round here earlier,' Greg said in a slightly different tone, and John knew there was something he was keeping from John. Something about Sherlock.   
'Why?'  
Greg shrugged, 'I handed in my notice and next thing Myc is sitting in my office telling me that he'd been planning on proposing before...well.'  
John breathed out, 'Shit, Greg. I'm sorry. What happened?'  
'We caused a bit of a scene and I asked him to leave.'  
'And you...you really quit?'  
Greg nodded, 'Going back to France.'  
'France? I thought you were from Brighton.'  
Greg just smiled sadly and sipped his coffee again.  
#  
In his office Mycroft Holmes looked down at the security feed that was filtering through to his laptop. Anthea had pursed her lips in disaproval when he'd accessed it again. She had views about spying on friends and family. For a long time Mycroft had the feed disconnected, but now it once again showed the inside of Gregory's office, the little glass cublicle messier than ever, and crowded with the added addition of John Watson.  
Mycroft fought a stab of jealousy and reminded himself that the only reason he was in the situation he was in now was because of jealousy. He listened as John and Gregory talked.  
#  
John set his cup down and looked down at his knees.  
'Greg, look, I need to ask. About you and Sherlock...'  
Greg nodded. He'd been expecting this eventually. Since that morning he and John had barely spoken, and when they did it was about football and cases, never about either of the Holmes brothers.  
'It was nothing, John. Once. Years ago. Before you. Lots of alcohol and adrenalin and a hearty dose of cocaine. Never looked at each other before or since.'  
'And you and Mycroft were okay?'  
Greg laughed bitterly, 'Not in the slightest. He...deduced it all. Just like I knew he would, and then he called it all off.'  
'You got back together though,' John pointed out.  
'Eventually. Took a long time for him to fogive me,' Greg shrugged sadly, 'At least that time I'd actually done something wrong.'  
John sighed, 'Would have been easier if we had just shagged, at least then we'd have something to feel guilty about.'  
'I don't feel guilty, just disapointed. Hurt.'  
Narrowing his eyes at Greg, John considered his next question before speaking.  
'If Mycroft had asked, what would you have said?'  
A fleeting smile crossed Greg's face at the memory of something that never happened, but it was a sad smile, full of regret and pain.  
#  
In his office, Mycroft closed the window on his laptop, not wanting to hear Gregory's response. Not wanting to know what could have been if he had just believed Gregory. The knowledge of the little box in the safe burned his soul.  
#  
Anthea knew she shouldn't have been watching the security feed, but she had seen all the warning signs on Mycroft's face when he came back to the office. He was finally sobering up, and if he was going to chose tonight to hit the scotch then Anthea wanted to be prepared for it. Which is why Anthea heard Greg's response and Mycroft didn't.  
'Course I would've,' the little voice on the monitor said.  
#  
'So what now?' John asked, and Greg just shook his head.  
'I've got some leave left, and they're gonna let me take that instead of working my notice.'  
'When do you leave?'  
'Couple of days. Not like I have anything to pack.'  
Greg had been vague about what he told his parents. They knew that he and Mycroft had broken up, and they knew that he'd decided to go back home to look for a job there. Fresh start and all. His mother had been disapointed, she'd liked Mycroft. His father was relieved, he was terrified of Mycroft. Greg was just heartbroken and needed to be somewhere he didn't stand the risk of running into Mycroft every day.  
'What are you going to do?' he asked John.  
'No idea. Yesterday I was looking for somewhere else to live, and today he's saying sorry. Tomorrow he'll probably blow the flat up.'  
'Will you get back together?'  
John stared down at his empty cup, 'That's the question, isn't it?'  
#  
John was still thinking about that when he opened the door to 221B. Sherlock was in the living room, violin in hand. He stopped when John entered, worry creasing his face.  
'You were with Lestrade,' he said eventually.  
John cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock, 'And you were smoking again.'  
Sherlock's mouth opened slightly, and then stretched into a slight smile as John peeled off his coat and threw it on the sofa before heading for the kitchen.  
'Tea?'


	7. Chapter 7

Greg was packing the last of his personal belongings from his office, unaware that he was being watched not just by his team, but by Mycroft. When he recieved a message from Anthea, Mycroft's assistant, asking him to stop by the office to sign some papers before he left the country, Greg was less than impressed.  
He's had six months - GL  
Anthea didn't respond. Which was why Greg was in such a foul mood when he arrived at Mycroft's office that afternoon, well aware that he had a flight to catch in four hours.  
He didn't bother with hellos, he just walked into Mycroft's office, already reaching for a pen.  
'Right, let's make this quick.'  
Mycroft was standing at the window and jerked around when Greg strode in, clearly surprised to see him.  
'Gregory, I wasn't aware you would be calling.'  
'Anthea said you had papers for me to sign about the joint bank account,' the bank account that Greg had very rarely accessed and only as a last resort, and never once since Mycroft had thrown him out. 'So whatever it is can we just get it over with?' He nodded towards Mycroft's desk. And stopped.  
Mycroft crossed the floor in two long strides and snatched at the object of Greg's attention, but it was too late, Greg had already seen it. He looked at Mycroft then, the man paler than he had ever seen him.  
'Was that...?'  
Mycroft nodded slowly.  
Greg stilled, processing. Mycroft had said only a couple of days before that he'd once planned...but Greg never suspected that he'd actually gone and bought...'Can I...can I see?'  
Mycroft looked panicked, but then his composure slipped back into place and he held out the box towards Greg, who opened it slowly, smiling when he saw what it contained. Mycroft had clearly put a lot of thought into his choice, and Greg swallowed as he pictured Mycroft chosing them. One silver, one gold. Opposites and complimentary at the same time.   
'Gregory,' Mycroft said softly, 'Do you...would you consider...?'  
Oh God he wanted to. He wanted nothing more than to say yes and keep this man in his life forever. But Greg shook his head and gently set the little box back down on Mycroft's desk.  
'I can't, Myc,' he whispered.  
'Gregory...'  
'I'm sorry,' he looked up into Mycroft's stormy eyes and saw real pain there, 'You're asking for the wrong reasons. You don't trust me. And getting married won't change that. I'm sorry,' he glanced at the clock on the wall, 'I have to go.'  
'...Gregory,' Mycroft's voice was just a small whisper in the room and it broke Greg's heart all over again to hear.  
'...If I thought...if you trusted me...' he shook his head, 'Myc...'  
Knowing it would be the last time and thinking that he had nothing to lose, Greg gently touched Mycroft's cheek, swiping his thumb across his cheekbone before leaning close and pressing one gentle kiss to his lips before forcing himself to walk out of the office and not look back.


	8. Chapter 8

For the first time in over twenty years, Greg Lestrade took some proper time off. He spent much of the first few weeks mooching around the little village his parents lived in, ignoring his mothers concerned questions and his father's suggestions of future career opportunities, which were few and far between in the rural countryside.  
He started to miss city life and began looking further afeild for possible jobs. He'd been to Paris twice for interviews with security firms. Consultancy work mostly, no fieldwork. He wasn't sure how he felt about sitting behind a desk all day.  
John kept in touch. Not as much as he used to, but from the blog Greg could see that he and Sherlock had plenty of work on, and although John didn't discuss it much, it seemed like they were getting back on track too. He knew that John was still sleeping upstairs in his old room, but at least they were talking.  
He didn't hear from Mycroft.  
Four months of living with his parents reminded him why he had moved out in the first place, and when he got an invite to John's birthday he took to opportunity to visit London again, confident that the last person who would be at that dinner would be Mycroft. He got offers to stay with friends, but in the end booked himself into a hotel room not too far away. The plan was to stay for two nights so he wasn't travelling back with a hangover. He could barely tolerate planes as it was, he didn't want to spend the entire journey trying to keep hold of the contents of his stomach.  
The dinner itself was quiet but pleasant. Molly was delighted to see him and as usual had gone to far too much trouble with her appearance, but she looked great and Greg made a point of telling her so. He sat at the opposite end of the table from John and Sherlock, and couldn't help but notice the protective way Sherlock hovered around John. It was quite strange seeing Sherlock being the one to open doors and waiting for John instead of striding ahead and leaving him trailing in his wake. Greg smiled down at them and then was drawn into a conversation with Molly about the medical students she had in on placement.  
'Are you coming back to London soon?' Molly asked, sipping her wine.  
'No.' Greg didn't really want to talk about it, 'Not much here now, besides, I need to find a job and quickly.'  
Molly looked confused and glanced over towards John and Sherlock, 'Oh.'  
'What?'  
She licked her lips, 'It's just, John said that someone from the yard told him they'd kept your job open...' she trailed off uncertainly as she caught sight of Greg's expression.  
'He was wrong,' Greg said, trying to keep the sudden tension out of his voice.  
Things livened up when some of John's rugby friends turned up for drinks afterwards, and Greg watched as Molly became the rather flustered centre of a group of rowdy blokes all bidding for her attention. What Greg wasn't expecting was the way John's team captain flirted shamelessly with Greg at the bar. And Greg was tempted. God was he tempted. But even Greg thought it would be a bit tacky to pick someone up while he was having dinner with his ex boyfriends brother. That didn't stop him flirting back though, after all, it was just flirting.  
By ten Sherlock was getting a bit restless and was glaring at people around him. John pressed a glass of whisky into his hand and whispered something in his ear that turned Sherlock's cheeks pink and quietened him down for a while, although Greg couldn't help notice how an hour later Sherlock practically mauled John before the cab door had even shut and he was glad he had turned down the offer to stay at Baker Street.  
He walked back to his hotel, lighting a cigarette as he went, listening to the sounds of London at night, feeling more content than he had for a long time, just being in the city soothed his mind. But at the same time he felt so desperately lonely being back there. That pang turned into an ache when he started to pass familiar places, places of significance. As he walked over the bridge, automatically glancing up at Big Ben, he wondered if Mycroft was in Parliament that night. He blinked away the thought but not before the atrange feeling that he could be so close to the other man, who wouldn't even know it. He had lived and worked in this area of London for so long, his life so focused on these few square miles. His work. Mycroft's work. Baker Street. Home.   
He flicked away his cigarette as he realised that none of those places were part of his life anymore, and just like that the hollowness that he had been locking away for so long threatened to overcome him again. This, London, these people, places. They weren't his life anymore.  
He thought about Mycroft as he climbed the stairs. When Mycroft was on one of his fitness kicks he always insisted on the stairs, and somehow, no matter how many flights they had to climb, the man would always arrive looking as cool and collected as when they began. Greg on the other hand would usually be out of breath and feel sweaty and uncomfortable and it would put him in a bad mood for whatever was coming next.   
The room was dimly lit by two lamps when he arrived, and he pushed his disguarded clothes off the end of the bed before retrieving the bottle of scotch he'd smuggled in in his luggage, his working class soul refusing to pay hotel prices for alcohol, and pouring himself a large measure. He took several mouthfuls before setting it on the bedside table and sitting down to toe off his shoes, his tie already thrown to the floor at the other side of the room.  
The room was nice. Not as nice as some of places he had stayed in with...well. That was gone and he was technically still unemployed, so five star hotels were out of the question. But this weekend had been a last treat before he started to seriously look for work again. He groaned at the thought of it, and longed to be running through rainy streets again, complaining about long days and bad coffee before curling up in bed with...  
He sighed and sat up. He would have to stop thinking about that. It had been ten months since he'd stood in the street in front of their home with his belongings in bags around him, and since he'd left for France he'd not heard from Mycroft once. Greg had been tempted to text him when he knew he was going to be in London, perhaps see if he was free for lunch. He had to admit to himself that it would have been good to see the man again, but that would mean admitting that he missed him, and that was a dangerous route to go down.  
As he reached for his glass again, Greg's fingers brushed against something on the nightstand that had not been there when he left the room earlier that evening, and that he hadn't noticed when he came in. For a long moment he just stared at it, wondering if he was imagining it. But when he closed his fingers around it, it was solid in his hands. Hand which shook as they opened it.  
Two rings. One silver. One gold.  
Greg was on his feet in an instant, wrenching open the bedroom door to find a man standing outside, calmly waiting. The only man who could have arranged for his job to stay open. The only man who would break into his hotel room. The only man who could tell Greg everything with just one simple gesture.   
He looked at Greg expectantly, nervous, and Greg just shook his head and smiled back, feeling genuinely happy for the first time in months. There was only one thing he could say.  
'Yes.'


End file.
